The Texting Men
by JillianWatson1058
Summary: Sherlock insults John's blog one too many times, so the good doctor forces him to write a post. This is the result. A modernization of sorts of "The Dancing Men."
1. The Last Straw

The Last Straw

"Have you ever read _The Lost World?_" John was sitting on the sofa, which was- surprisingly- vacated, as Sherlock was doing some strange experiment in the kitchen. It looked to John as if his friend was dissecting random body parts that he had convinced Molly to get for him. But, of course, he didn't look too hard. He had learned his lesson early on to keep his eyes focused on his book and nothing else. After all the parts that Sherlock had "borrowed," John wouldn't have been surprised to find that half of St. Bart's morgue had taken its turn in the (admittedly terrifying) fridge.

"No," Sherlock replied, holding up a strangely-colored organ for inspection, "I usually stay away from romanticized fiction."

"It's not romanticized! It's completely realistic!"

"Yes, but you believe that your _blog _is quality prose." He set the organ back in a large metal bowl. "I don't think I'll be trusting your literary judgment in the near future. What is this _Lost World_ about, anyway?"

"It's about a group of people who discover a plateau in South America where dinosaurs are still alive."

The detective's eyebrows shot up. "And you call that _realistic?_"

"Well, it's like what you always say. 'When you've ruled out the improbable, whatever remains, even if it's impossible, has to be true."

"I can't even imagine a worse slaughter of my own words. They're currently weeping because of the horrid mess and terrible use you've made of them." He prodded another body part with a suspicious-looking scalpel.

"Well, then your words just need to toughen up. They really need to take things less personally."

"If you think _dinosaurs _are realistic, you should really read more of my extensive library."

Setting his book down, the doctor crossed his arms. "And hear about every gory detail of every crime ever committed in the history of the universe? I think I'll stick to my fiction, thanks. Anyway, I think you'd actually like the book. The main character, Challenger, reminds me a lot of you."

"How so?" Deeming the random organ suitable for experimentation, the detective began to dissect it. "Is he an intelligent man surrounded by idiots who try to make him read worthless literature?"

"_He _thinks so. Well, except for the literature part. He's a scientist, like you, and he's also extremely prideful and insults everyone he meets. I think you two would get along."

"He sounds like a decent person."

"He's also the one who believes in dinosaurs."

"Well, when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."

"I _just _said that!" John threw his hands in the air, exasperated. "And you said I was wrong!"

"No, you misquoted me and said that you eliminate the improbable. Never eliminate the improbable, only the impossible. If the only thing left is impossible, you've done something wrong. Really, John, I can see why you're not a scientist, if you think that you can eliminate something simply on the basis of its being improbable."

"I never claimed to be a scientist. However, _you_ fancy yourself to be a literature critic when all you read are historical accounts of crimes."

"Yes, I think you're right for once, John."

"You don't even- wait. I'm _right?_"

"Yes, do keep up. I can't call myself a literature critic, since I read your blog, and it's caused my standard for writing to drop considerably."

"Oh, would you just shut up about my blog? I've had enough of your complaining! It's time for you to write a post."

"No. I have better things to do with my time."

"What? Like pulling apart some person's… What is that, anyway? A liver?"

"_Kidney_. And it's an experiment!"

"An experiment that can wait until you write a blog post."

"I have nothing to write. You've already monopolized all the more interesting cases."

"What about the one with the… texts… and the… code?"

"That was articulate."

"You do realize that, by refusing to write something, you're admitting defeat because you realize I'm a better writer than you."

Sherlock just stomped over to the sofa, grabbed John's laptop with a snarl, and started typing furiously. "There," he proclaimed after only a minute, "it's finished. I don't see how you make such a chore out of something so simple."

"You _cannot_ be done already. Let me see that!" John snatched back his laptop. "Let's see… 'It was a childishly simple case, really. Our client, a recently-married man with a stressful desk job (as was evident from the moment he walked in the room), came to us saying that he had been getting strange texts. He showed them to me, and it was easy enough to decipher what they said (seeing as e is the most common letter, then t, a, and so on, and then I simply had to fit them into words that made sense). They were a message stating…' Sherlock! That's not a story; that's just a solution!"

"Exactly, seeing as this _isn't _a story. It so _happens _to be an accurate account of a case, which is rare for you, I know. It takes away all the worthless fluff and summarizes the case nicely."

"But it- I'm sorry, did the word _'fluff'_ just come out of your pompous mouth?"

"Did the word 'pompous' just come out of yours? I'm allowed to make use of my extensive vocabulary, John. The word 'fluff' fit your writing style perfectly."

"I'm honored." The doctor just rolled his eyes and handed Sherlock the laptop again. "Start over. This is rubbish."

"What? Why?"

"Because it has to be _interesting_, Sherlock. This is barely even prose!"

"Neither are your normal blog posts…" This earned the detective a whack on the head with a nearby pillow. "It's the truth!"

"Then prove it. Write something better than I can." Seeing his friend beginning to type again, he added, "And make it interesting!"

"Not a problem."

Apparently, it wasn't quite as easy as Sherlock expected. However, after a couple of hours, several false starts, and countless arguments, he showed John the finished product.

"I think you've gotten it, Sherlock."

"_Gotten _it?_ Please._ You make it sound as if you've actually _taught_ me something."

"I _did_ teach you something."

"Enlighten me."

"I taught you that writing isn't as easy as it looks."

"Oh, just post it already!"

"Admit it; it was rather hard," the doctor smirked.

"It was only hard because you made me start over _seven times_!"

"All for the sake of quality, Sherlock. We wouldn't want to disappoint your readers with romanticized prose, now would we?" He logged onto his blog, uploaded the file, and hit post. "Here goes nothing. I hope you're satisfied with your work."

"Of _course_ I'm satisfied with it! There was nothing wrong with it the other six times, either!"

"Whatever you say…"

JWJWJW

**Teacher: For your assignment, I want you to write in Doyle's style.**

**Me: SCORE!**

**And this is what happened. It will probably be a two or threeshot, depending on where I take this. One thing's for sure: you WILL get to see what Sherlock wrote. Hope you enjoy!**

**~JillianWatson1058**

**Comments?**


	2. The Texting Men

The Texting Men

This is idiotic. This whole thing is idiotic. And pointless. And idiotic. Have I mentioned this? And, for John's information, I am _not _ranting. I am simply stating the facts. Also, I will _not _get on with the "story" until John _stops looking over my shoulder._

_Thank_ you.

I wrote a title for this pointless work, but I realize that, whatever suiting title I give it, John will just delete it and replace it with something utterly ridiculous. If you look at the top of the page, you'll see what I mean. I originally titled it, "Titles are Useless," which I thought was quite appropriate. However, it has no doubt been changed.

Ill-devised titles aside, I had been having an awful week. The criminal classes had apparently banded together to be as boring as humanly possible. I tried to be productive with my boredom, but John seemed to think that my experiments were unacceptable.

It was Tuesday **[This is John here, by the way. Notice this was only **_**Tuesday. **_**He was only on his second day without a case. Hardly a **_**week,**_** in my opinion.]**, and, since I couldn't _help humanity_ with my experiments (Do you see that, John? My experiments _help humanity._ I thought you cared about that. But no, you're as heartless as you accuse me of being.), I was delving into my mind palace and filing information from the crime encyclopedia I had been reading, and deleting unnecessary data (mostly the crap telly shows John had been making me watch), when I was rudely interrupted by a tapping noise.

I opened my eyes, but there was no one in the living room. The noise came again, and I triangulated its location to the kitchen window. Stomping over to the offending window, I pulled back the curtain to investigate.

A pigeon.

A _pigeon._

A. Stupid. _Pigeon._ Was interrupting T3he Work.

That would have to stop.

I glared at the bird, even baring my teeth, giving it a clear signal that (1) I was a predator and (2) I was unhappy. It simply cocked its head and stared back. Clearly, this bird was even dull in the pigeon world. I hit the window with my hand, willing the stupid animal to go away. It didn't move.

"Go!" I whacked the window again. Nothing. "Go away, Anderson!" I thought this was a fitting name for the creature, given its low mental ability. "_Go!"_ Another hit. The little beast didn't go away, but even dared to tap the window _again._

I wrenched open the window, forcibly pushing the monster off the ledge. It simply flapped a couple times and landed back on the window sill. That was the last straw. Grabbing the fiend by its feet, I pulled it inside. Finally, it gave me a reaction and started flapping wildly. Too little, too late.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" It was John. Of _course _he wouldn't have come _earlier_ to deal with the feathery beast. (I hope you all aren't traumatized by my using _dialogue_, as John's blog doesn't usually subject you to this kind of writing. He prefers to tell and not show.) **[Shut up, Sherlock!]**

"Putting Anderson in the fridge."

"Putting An- Did you name that bird _Anderson?"_

"Yes." I pulled open the fridge door and shoved the bird in.

"You can't just stick a bird in the fridge!"

"Apparently I _can, _since this bird is _definitely_ in the fridge."

"Take it out. Now."

"Is that a _client_ I hear?" I had seen someone walking by when I was dealing with the pigeon. The man kept looking at house numbers, and hesitated when he finally found ours. He either didn't think his case was important, or thought it a bit too personal.

"_What_ client? Take the pigeon out of the fridge!" Oh, ye of little faith, John.

The doorbell rang. "_That_ client."

Footsteps pounded on the stairs (Is _that _rubbish, John? Those five words right there are better prose than your entire blog put together!) **[Actually, they're a bit cliché, but you wouldn't know that, since you **_**haven't read that much quality literature**_**]**, and a recently-married man (as was evident from the fact that his wedding ring could still slide around on his finger) with a stressful desk job (which was clear from certain wrinkles on his forehead and callouses on his right hand) walked into the living room.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"That would be me." I walked over and sat down in my typical chair.

"My name is Harold Cubitt. I heard from a friend that you like to solve puzzles?"

"Yes, get on with it."

John shot me a look.

"Well, then," Mr. Cubitt reached into his pocket, taking out a mobile and holding it out to me, "here's the puzzle."

I started looking the phone over.

"I've… been receiving some strange texts lately."

"No."

"Sorry, what?"

"_You _haven't been receiving them; your wife has. This is clearly _her_ phone and not yours. The color of the phone and the fact that there is still another phone in your pocket make this clear. And, since you lied about her, I'm assuming you don't want to involve her in any questioning. It could be that you want to keep her safe from whatever these messages contain, but lying about anything in a case often hampers the investigation, and, if she truly wanted these messages investigated, she would have talked you into telling the truth. No, it's more likely that she told you not to investigate this, and you don't want her to find out that you did this against her will."

He was struck silent for a moment (Most people are.), but eventually stuttered out, "Y-you're right."

"Obviously." After taking less than two seconds to guess the passcode for the phone, I searched through the messages folder.

"M-my wife has been receiving strange texts."

"_These_ texts; am I correct?" I held up the screen to him, and he nodded rapidly.

"She became very agitated after seeing them, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. They make no sense. It could just be some childish prank, but her reaction made it seem like it was something bigger. I couldn't stand to see her like that. She's just perfect, and if it was something serious, I-"

"And she wouldn't tell you what they said."

"No. She said it was nothing, but I could hear her tossing and turning all night. Can you decode them?"

"Of course. If someone invented it, someone else can discover it. And that person just happens to be me."

The texts were as follows:

APBT TRDET

QB EV TUFRQUW QRTH DRQUTX

QL TRSEFTD

APBT VQAG LP ID

BETT XPI

CT CERR OEUW XPI

TRDET JSTJQST LP BTTL XPIS BQGTS

To make a long story (even though it _should _have been a very _short _account of a case) short, I'll simply tell you that this code was childishly simple to decode, seeing as, in the English language, E is the most common letter (this was clearly represented by the T in the messages). After that, the order roughly goes T, A, O, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L. However, T, A, O, and I are almost equal in their usage, so it was better to figure out letters and words from the context the E gave me. Here was my finished translation, which took around two minutes to complete.

COME ELSIE (Elsie was Mrs. Cubitt's name, as I figured out by searching through her messages)

AM IN ENGLAND ALEX SLANEY

AT ELRIGES

COME BACK TO US

MISS YOU

WE WILL FIND YOU

PREPARE TO MEET YOUR MAKER

Mr. Cubitt grew pale, apparently surprised that his "perfect" wife could've had enemies that he didn't know about. Foolish man; everyone has enemies. One of the most charming and seemingly "perfect" women I've ever met was convicted (by yours, truly, I might add) of poisoning four men simply because she couldn't let go of a grudge.

Snapping our client out of his useless shock, I asked, "Did she text him back?"

"N-no."

"Well, then, I think _I _had better."

"Sherlock," John said, "what are you-"

"Trust me, John." I typed back: APBT LP BT QL LCP LCP OUE V VQGTS DLSTTL.

Mr. Cubitt looked at me curiously. "What did you write?"

"Come to me at 221b Baker Street."

"Great." John threw his hands in the air. "Telling a possible murderer our home address. That's just _brilliant_, Sherlock."

And it _was _brilliant (as my plans _always_ are). The message worked exactly as planned, and, approximately half an hour later, the sender of the coded texts showed up at our door.

Since this is boring me to tears, and I've already shown that my work is far superior to John's **[As if!]**, I'll just shorten this up and explain that we caught Alex Slaney, who used to be in a gang with Elsie. She had left to start a new life, but Alex, who was hopelessly in love with her and would never actually follow through on his threats, had finally caught up with her. We arrested Alex, who put up quite the fight and actually knocked out Mr. Cubitt (but Mr. Cubitt was being an idiot, so I really can't blame Mr. Slaney), and managed to track down the rest of the gang, thanks to Alex Slaney's cooperation (in order to get himself out of jail time).

Are you happy now, John? No, of _course _not. For those of you who were wondering, John apparently thinks my setting was too long and the action too short. For _John's _information, this is not a story that can just be _made up. _This was simply a case, and a rather simple one at that. I solved it. I'm not quite sure what else John expects.

He demands a conclusion.

I've already concluded the case. So I'll just tell you about Anderson the pigeon. After Mr. Cubitt and Mr. Slaney left, Lestrade (who had been the officer in charge of the arrest) stuck around to talk, since he does that sometimes.

Right after one of Lestrade's comments about recent robberies, John interrupted him and asked, "Do you like birds?"

Lestrade looked at him in bewilderment. "Um, yeah, I don't mind them, I guess. Wh-"

"Perfect!" John ran to the fridge, grabbing out the demon pigeon.

"Do I want to know why there's a live pigeon in your fridge?" The DI continued to look utterly lost (but this was normal for him).

"He was interrupting The Work," I explained.

"He was- Sherlock, it's a _pigeon._ Somehow I don't think it was doing it on purpose."

"Oh, Anderson knew _exactly_ what he was doing."

"You named it _Anderson?" _

"Oh, just take the bird, Lestrade!" John pleaded. **[I actually called him "Greg," but apparently Sherlock didn't find this important enough to remember.]**

"You don't have to, really. I'm perfectly content to experiment on him."

"Fine! I'll take the dumb bird," he conceded at last, grabbing the feathered monster by the feet.

And so, the beast found a home with Detective Inspector Lestrade, I cracked a code, we caught a criminal gang, and I have finally finished this account that turned out much longer than it ever should have been. And please, don't waste your time reading John's blog.

JWJWJW

**Um. Yeah. I suck for making you wait. I am SO sorry about the several months it took me to finish this. Life insisted on getting in the way of my writing. **

**I hope you enjoyed how this turned out. If you have any thoughts, please leave a review. Have a lovely day, you amazing person!**

**EB DPSSX**

**LNQVGD OPS CQELEUF.**


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